


The Pie-Maker and the All-American Hero

by nerddowell



Series: The Pie-Maker and the All-American Hero [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (I feel like being caught in a burning building deserves that tag), Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bakery Owner Bucky, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Fire, Fireman Steve, M/M, Thor doesn't get the whole 'one name is enough' thing, Thor is the best I love him, Trauma, Tumblr: otpprompts, actual human dustbin Clint Barton, and now it's THIS, and then it was a Great British Bake Off AU, steve rogers to the rescue, this started out as a Pushing Daisies AU, whatever this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 14:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14571039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: ‘Oh myGod,’ he moans, almost orgasmic, in the kind of voice that wouldn’t sound amiss in a porno, and Bucky’s suddenly fighting a rush of blood south. ‘This isamazing. Are you single? Can I marry you for a lifetime supply of this pie?’a modern au with baker!bucky and firefighter!steve based on this post from otpprompts:Person A is a baker in a small urban community while person B is a firefighter. A likes to cook B cute little snacks and meals every time B comes to the bakery, and they’ll eat together and chat in the alley. One day, a call comes in to the fire station saying that there is a huge fire at the bakery A is at. B rushes over and saves A. That night, still shooken up after the tragedy, B confesses their feelings to A, saying “I couldn’t bear to lose you” or “I’ll try to keep you safe forever.”





	The Pie-Maker and the All-American Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I feel bad that I haven't written for these guys for ages and that the second proper 'getting back into it' fic I've written is more Bucky whump, but. It fit.

The kitchen is sweltering as Bucky piles the crumbs of sweet shortcrust pastry onto the counter, gloved fingers kneading and massaging at the heap of ingredients, trying to amalgamate it into a dough and cursing the lack of aircon. Even with the window open, it’s far too hot and the butter is melting and his pastry – the fourth batch he’s tried to make this morning – is disintegrating under his hands. He growls in frustration, swiping the whole lot off the work surface into the bin, and debates whether or not he can just _not open_ today.

As tempting as it is, he can’t. Probably half of Brooklyn comes into his bakery every day to buy his pies and cakes, and if he closes, there’ll be riots. (Well, Thor might break more of his plates – he never quite learned that the American version of ‘More, please,’ isn’t throwing whatever crockery he can reach on the floor and hollering ‘This pie, I like it! Another!’ – and Bucky is honestly afraid that Clint might follow through on the threat of Natasha’s ingenuity.) He rubs the back of his hand over his forehead, wiping away the sweat beading along his hairline, and glowers at the broken aircon unit. He’d have to call Thor in at this rate; the man was the best electrician he knew, but he also had a bottomless pit for a stomach and so far, food was the only thing Bucky could really pay him in.

He admits defeat and texts Thor, promising a slice of his favourite apple and cloudberry pie in payment, and heads into the freezer to remake his pastry. He uses a chopping board laid out on one of the freezer shelves as a makeshift work surface and manages to cobble together a half-decent shortcrust which will do for two or three pie cases at least.

He’s slicing peaches when Thor arrives, announcing himself with his usual earth-shatteringly loud slam of the door and booming ‘JAMES BARNES!’ (Bucky is still working on the first-name-basis thing with him.). Bucky gestures with the knife to the offending aircon, and Thor gets to work whilst chattering about his brother’s latest misadventures in Manhattan. Bucky concentrates on making the filling – the sliced peaches, lemon juice, brown sugar and vanilla – over the stove, offering a grunt every now and then to show he’s listening, and stirs carefully, eyes never leaving the pan for fear of the syrupy fruit burning.

Thor is eyeing the bowl hopefully, so Bucky rolls his eyes and gives him the spoon to lick to keep him quiet. It works, and twenty minutes later, there’s a blissfully cool breeze drifting over him as he lines a pie tin with pastry and tips in the filling. A sprinkle of sugar goes over the top before the pie is slid into the oven, and Bucky fetches Thor his promised payment, which disappears in three enormous bites.

Thor beams at him, mouth thankfully closed, and swallows hard before clapping Bucky on the back with the kind of force that could snap a lesser man’s spine in half.  
‘I shall see you later, James Barnes!’

‘See you, Thor,’ he nodded, and goes back to measuring out maple syrup for his next recipe.

Now that the air con is working, making pastry is a cinch, and he prepares a double batch of cream cheese pie dough for today’s specials (the maple, pear and ginger, and buttermilk and blackberry). These are assembled in no time, slotted into the oven whilst he works on the cakes side of his business. He’s making one of Natasha’s favourites, a blackberry and basil Swiss roll he’d invented by accident when he was bored one afternoon and just throwing random flavours from their garden together. He’d been more than a little terrified it would be awful, given that the last time he’d used herbs in a sweet bake, he’d made space cakes in college (on Wade’s orders) that had made Weasel, who could handle drinking his own body weight in beer, green out in the bathroom. (He’d been so stoned he couldn’t move for three hours, and instead he’d just stared at the ceiling light like a baby watching a revolving mobile above its crib.)

Bucky rotates the pies out of the oven to make room for his sponge, setting the timer and making a coffee whilst he waits for the pies to cool enough to be transferred to the refrigerated racks at the front of the store. He turns his iPod dock on, drinking his coffee and singing along quietly to Hootie and the Blowfish and the Weepies, the sort of fluffy easy-listening crap he always puts on for background noise whilst he was baking, and waits for the timer to go off.

It rings about thirty minutes before he’s due to open, so he removes the sponge, perfectly golden brown and smooth on top, from the oven, and sits it on the counter for a minute until it’s cooled just enough to handle before rolling it up tightly. This is the most essential part of making a proper Swiss roll, he reminded himself under his breath. Leave it until it’s cool to roll, and it’ll crack and form a shape more like a mess of angles than a proper swirl. He lets the sponge relax again before spreading his jam, now beautifully set, and whipped cream over the top.

He rolls it back up without incident, sending a silent prayer of thanks to the baking gods, and garnishes with a sprig of basil and some fresh blackberries before moving it to the front refrigerator display next to his caramel apple cake and raspberry-lemon cupcakes. Eight a.m. chimes on the clock two minutes later and Bucky dusts his floury gloves off on his apron as he goes to unlock the front door.

Thor is back (no surprise there), with Clint and Sam in tow. They all work together at some government building downtown and spend most of their breaks at the bakery, and therefore are some of Bucky’s most prized regulars. Bucky wanders around with the coffee pot, refilling their mugs and trying to push another slice each on them (Thor needs no encouragement, of course, and Clint has eaten two pieces of the apple and damson already). Sam is scrolling through the local news on his phone and telling them both about the ridiculous things going on in the world as he takes dainty (in comparison to Thor and Clint, anyway) bites of his pie.

Over the rest of the morning, more customers trickle in – the little old lady from Bucky’s apartment block who always stops in for a cup of English breakfast tea and slice of the lemon drizzle cake; the hipsters who don’t seem to understand the meaning of ‘I don’t know how to make a flat white and I don’t want to learn’, but always order a granola-raisin cupcake too so at least he has _something_ to serve them; Phil, the harried executive assistant from the offices near Stark Tower who takes his cherry slice and black Americano to go – and Bucky is content just bustling between the counter and the kitchen, replenishing stock when he has the time and engaging in short chats with customers when he doesn’t.

The day goes past quickly, and he’s not far from closing when another customer comes in, dressed in a khaki firefighter’s uniform, jacket open over a tight-fitting grey tshirt, and grins tiredly at Bucky, who is busy updating date labels for the refrigerator units.

‘Can I get the biggest coffee humanly possible?’

‘Sure,’ Bucky nods, eyes on the list in front of him, and looks up quickly, more out of politeness than anything else. ‘Did you want anything to…’

The words die in his mouth as he takes in the man in front of him. A smudge of dirt over a strong nose, slightly crooked as though it was broken when he was younger, messy and slightly long blond hair hanging into his eyes, the bluest eyes Bucky has ever seen and a jawline that could cut like a razor. He was built under his uniform, strong chest straining against his tshirt (it must be _at least two_ sizes too small, Bucky thinks, his mouth dry), with big, long-fingered hands, and Jesus Christ, Bucky is _royally_ fucked.

‘To…?’ the guy asks, raising his eyebrows with a soft smile, and Bucky swallows hard before forcing himself to Words.

‘To eat,’ he manages, and the guy nods.

‘God, yes. I’m starving. I don’t know what to choose, though,’ he says with a small laugh, spreading his hands helplessly, ‘everything looks so good.’

‘I, um, well, my favourite is the pear pie,’ he points to the morning’s maple, pear and ginger with the cream cheese pie dough, of which only one real slice remained (two, if he was being very stingy). The guy nodded thoughtfully, studying the rest of the contents of the cabinet.

‘There’s only one piece left.’

‘There’s only one of you,’ Bucky says with a smile, ‘unless you’re like Thor and consider one person’s serving to be three full pies. The guy eats me out of house and home; I’m just lucky that his finances support the size of his appetite.’

The other man laughs, and it’s the most beautiful sound Bucky has ever heard. Warm and soft and deep, and he’s thoroughly disappointed when it stops way too soon.

‘I thought you could maybe share it with me,’ the man says, a twinkle in his eyes, and Bucky’s stomach turns about eight somersaults, his heart skipping a beat.

‘…I guess,’ he mumbles. ‘It does need eating. How about half of that slice, and then…’ He glances around the cabinets, looking for something else to give this gorgeous person, ‘…and then a piece of the apple? You strike me as a traditional sort of guy.’

‘Don’t,’ the guy groaned with another amazing laugh, ‘I get enough stick for my birthday.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll laugh.’

‘I won’t, I promise,’ Bucky says, as he cuts the last slice of the pear pie in half and shares it between two plates.

‘It’s the fourth of July.’

‘ _Wow_.’

‘I told you you’d laugh,’ the man grins, and accepts one of the plates, sitting down at the bar to eat.

‘Not laughing, honest,’ Bucky says, but the grin on his face is undeniable, and the other man just rolls his eyes, snorting softly, and takes a forkful of the pie.

‘Oh my _God_ ,’ he moans, almost orgasmic, in the kind of voice that wouldn’t sound amiss in a porno, and Bucky’s suddenly fighting a rush of blood south. ‘This is _amazing_. Are you single? Can I marry you for a lifetime supply of this pie?’

‘It’s just pie.’

‘This isn’t ‘just pie’, this is heaven on a plate.’ The rest of the slice is wolfed down faster than Bucky has seen _Thor_ devour his food, which is saying something, and Bucky is only a little bit embarrassed by the pleased flush that glows on his cheeks. The guy is staring at him as though Bucky has hung the moon, and he squirms a little, a shy smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

‘I’m serious. Consider this a marriage proposal.’

‘My ma always told me to learn a man’s name before I marry him,’ Bucky teases, and the guy slaps a palm to his forehead.

‘My bad. I’m Steve, Steve Rogers.’

‘Bucky.’

‘ _Wow._ ’ Steve mimics Bucky’s tone from earlier.

‘Hey, I didn’t laugh at your birthday.’

‘Just _… Bucky_? Really?’

‘Well, James. After President Buchanan.’

‘And you call me the All-American Boy,’ Steve grins, and holds out his hand. Bucky shakes. ‘Well, Bucky, you know my name now. So I’m waiting for the yes or no on the whole marriage-for-pie deal.’

‘Get me a ring, and I’ll think about it.’

Steve laughs.  


* * *

  
From then on, Bucky always makes sure to save Steve a slice of the daily special for whenever he came in off his shift. More often that not, Steve looks exhausted, sometimes covered in soot with an angry red heat flush across his pale cheeks; he’ll collapse onto a stool by the bar, and Bucky will pass him a coffee and a plateful of pie and listen to whatever Steve wants to say, or not. On the days when Steve does want to talk, Bucky feels his heart constrict in his chest at the thought of Steve running into burning buildings, flames licking all around him and choking smoke in his lungs, to put out the fire. Other days, when Steve has seen too much to be able to talk about it, Bucky locks up and goes about closing, wiping down the counters and tables and stacking chairs, cleaning the coffee machines, until Steve gives him a heavy smile and a soft ‘Thanks, Buck.’

‘Any time,’ he says quietly, squeezing Steve’s shoulder, and lets him out before relocking the door.

He slowly learns more about Steve, the fact that as a kid he was tiny and asthmatic (he’s still technically a sufferer, but he’s not had to use his inhaler in years) with kidney problems and hypermobile joints that always hurt until puberty hit him like a truck at 14 and he shot up a foot and a half and filled out like a quarterback over the span of a couple of months. He’s deaf in one ear and wears a hearing aid. He’s terrified of thunderstorms and has been since he was little. His dad died on active service in the Gulf when Steve was three, so he was raised by his mom until she died when he was eighteen.

He says he’s okay about it, but his eyes are so impossibly sad that it makes Bucky’s heart ache, and he gives Steve an extra slice of pie that night because it’s all he can think of to do.

He finds himself sharing his own life story in kind, telling Steve about his life in Brooklyn until he was eight and he moved to Indiana with his parents and sister. How he came back for high school in Brooklyn when his dad’s job moved them back; the high school ex that made his life miserable for two years before being shipped off to Afghanistan with the Marines, and good riddance; his sister’s new baby with her husband, who calls Bucky ‘Bug’ and always has the stickiest hands imaginable, even after a bath.

He has photos of Becky and the baby on his phone, which he shows to Steve, and Steve smiles.

‘She’s cute.’

‘She’s the cutest baby on the planet,’ Bucky says seriously, nodding. ‘Almost as cute as I was.’

Steve laughs, the weight that’s been lying over his shoulders all night visibly lifting, and pinches Bucky’s cheek like an elderly maiden aunt.

‘I can believe it.’

Bucky rolls his eyes, shoves Steve off his stool, and then squeals when Steve bolts upright from the floor to chase him around the side of the counter and threaten to squirt him with the canned whipped cream. Bucky pleads for mercy around breathless laughter, and Steve grins at him, still pinning Bucky to the counter with strong hands.

They’re so close, and as Bucky’s laughter fades, he can’t help noticing how warm Steve’s chest is where it’s nearly pressed against his, the fact that all he has to do is turn his head slightly to catch Steve’s lips with his own. Steve’s eyes are on his, his gaze soft and warm, and Bucky coughs uncomfortably as he squirms out of Steve’s grasp. The other man lets him go, his face settled back in its usual familiar grin, but a guarded expression in his eyes that the smile doesn’t reach.

Bucky wants to kick himself.

Checking his watch, Steve excuses himself, saying he needs to get to sleep if he’s not going to be completely exhausted tomorrow, and Bucky waves him goodbye hesitantly. Steve waves back, but it’s a little off, and Bucky is _definitely_ going to kick himself.

The next morning is the Fourth of July, and Bucky has _plans_. He’s up at three-fifteen a.m. in the kitchen, pulling bowls and cake tins out of the cupboards, ingredients out of the pantry, everything he needs for the best cake he’s ever made. He’s got an ambitious recipe, caramel-apple cake with hazelnut praline buttercream filling and crumb coat, fondant outer icing and coloured caramel spun-sugar fireworks. Steve’s going to kill him, of course, but as long as he at least tastes the cake before murdering Bucky horribly with his own wooden spoon, Bucky will consider it a win.

He peels and cores the apples, dicing them small and tossing them in lemon juice, before putting them aside to work on the batter. Butter, sugar, flour, eggs for the basic base mixture, then almonds, lemon zest and mixed spice beaten in by hand. Usually he’d use his stand mixer, because with all of the other stuff he’s got to make to stock the bakery, he doesn’t have time for making things by hand, but this is for _Steve._ Once he’s added the apples, the batter is ready, and he pours it into three tins and smooths them down with a spatula.

The caramel is the hardest part. He gets through three attempts of varying disastrousness before he manages to get some he’s happy with, swirling the pan carefully to avoid letting it crystallise. He chills the residual heat out of the pan in the sink and takes it out again to pour the caramel over the chopped hazelnuts on the baking tray to set.

His iPod is playing something ridiculously bouncy, Michael Bublé’s latest album, and he dances around the kitchen, singing along. He might also be imagining Steve there with him, his eyes sparkling and laughter on his face at the stupid grin on Bucky’s face as he boogies with a smudge of flour across his nose and batter on his apron. It’s been too long since Bucky has danced with anyone, and he’s missed it.

He bets Steve is a great dancer.

Bucky’s iPod dock clicks over to the next song, _I’ve Got You Under My Skin_ by Frank Sinatra, another one of his mother’s favourites for time in the kitchen.

He doesn’t notice the smoke coming from the ovens, absorbed as he is in dancing around and, admittedly, daydreaming about slow-dancing with Steve to a big band like something out of a wartime film. He imagines Steve in a captain’s khaki-green uniform, broad shoulders in a well-fitted jacket, uniform pants hugging his strong thighs, shiny shoes leading Bucky across a parquet dance floor to the sounds of a jazz singer and brass band.

The electronics have gone to shit again, because his fire alarm doesn’t work.

The kitchen is growing uncomfortably hot, and he pulls himself out of his reverie to realise that it’s because the place is on fire, flames escaping the sides of the oven to blacken the metalwork, licking at the wooden counters, devouring his appliances. He’s frozen to the spot, staring at it in horror, as it just… _spreads_. The door is cut off almost immediately as a burning cupboard breaks away from its wall socket, falling across the entrance – and exit – to the kitchen. Bucky starts to panic.

He runs to the window, the air stiflingly hot, sweat dripping down his face, and wrenches at the lock. It swings open, just enough to let the billowing cloud of smoke out through the three-inch gap. He curses at his own shortsightedness, the amount of time he’d been intending to ask Thor to take a look at it and fix the warp in the wood that made it jam. He climbed up onto the sill, banging against it desperately, ramming it with his shoulder, anything to get it open; he was starting to choke on the smoke, his eyes streaming, his voice hoarse as he resigned himself to just screaming in the hope that someone, some insomniac Brooklyn soul up at half four in the morning, will hear him.

He hears someone out on the street start yelling and screams all the louder. At the top of his voice. The bystander is fighting their way towards him, and he sees that it’s Thor, blond and built and throwing his entire strength into trying to tear the window open, but the cloud of smoke is choking them both and even Thor’s strength is failing him in this.

A ululating noise starts up in the distance, faint, until it starts getting louder, and Bucky has never been so pleased to hear sirens in his life. He’s starting to feel weak, his legs threatening to buckle under him, his throat raw and stinging with the heat and the force of his yelling. A loud crash in the front of the bakery announces the arrival of the fire service, and then he hears it.

A familiar voice, strident with panic, yelling his name.

‘IN HERE!’ he hollers, coughing, as his legs give out and he slides down onto the countertop.

A black-clad figure in a helmet thunders through the door, shoving the burning cabinet aside, and makes their way straight over to him. It’s Steve, face black with soot and eyes wide, and he wraps a strong arm around Bucky’s waist and drags him up to stand. He’s carrying a fucking _axe_ , Bucky can’t believe it, and he shatters the glass of the window with it and all but hurls himself, Bucky in his arms, out of it.

They land heavily on the sidewalk, Steve underneath Bucky, and Bucky can’t stop the tears as he clings to him, coughing and choking. Steve passes Bucky to Thor, with the explicit command to look after him, before heading back to the rest of his unit to tackle the fire. Bucky watches, watches his bakery and business and life go up in flames before his eyes, and buries his face in Thor’s shoulder. There’s a large, strong hand smoothing warm circles over his back, helping him towards the fire truck where EMTs are waiting with a blanket and an oxygen mask, but it’s the wrong hand, and Bucky’s skin feels like it’s on fire too.

After what feels like hours, the firefighters come back out, the building still smoking heavily but thankfully no longer engulfed in flames. Steve wrenches his helmet and breathing mask off, throws them on the ground behind him, heading straight for Bucky, and crushes him to his chest, voice tight in his ears.

‘Thought I was gonna lose you, Christ, Bucky–’

‘Happy birthday,’ Bucky chokes out, ‘I’m not dead.’

‘The best birthday present I could ask for after the birthday I’ve had so far.’ Steve chokes out a laugh, his eyes wet, and buries his face in Bucky’s shoulder until they’re both done shaking.

‘What the hell were you making that you nearly burned the place down?’

‘You’re going to laugh,’ Bucky mumbles, unwilling to let go. He’s still dizzy, and probably in shock if he’s able to have this normal a conversation.

‘Bucky, you could’ve died. Now is not the time I’m going to be laughing.’

‘…I tried to make you a birthday cake.’

Steve pulls back to look at him, his eyes wide. Bucky stares back, grey eyes brimming, shame and heat flushing his face bright red beneath the caked-on layer of sweat and soot. Steve lets out a pained groan and shakes his head in disbelief.

‘You _fucking idiot_.’

‘It’s your birthday!’ Bucky protests.

‘Bucky, you nearly killed yourself to make me a fucking _birthday cake_?’

‘It was gonna be caramel apple.’

Steve grasps Bucky’s chin and forcibly turns his head, crushing their lips together. Bucky whimpers, still weak from the shock and smoke inhalation, and Steve kissing him is doing exactly zero things to help the shakiness in his knees and the fluttering of his heart. In fact, he’s probably making it worse. Steve tangles a hand in Bucky’s long hair, pulling away just enough to rest their foreheads together, panting against Bucky’s mouth.

‘I thought I was gonna lose you, Buck, you know that? I thought – you nearly–’

‘I know,’ Bucky mumbles. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I can’t do that, okay? I can’t lose you.’ Steve grips his hair tighter, bumps his forehead against Bucky’s. ‘Understand?’

‘Yes,’ Bucky nods, and Steve kisses him again, until Bucky can’t breathe and his legs are going wobbly and the EMTs drag him away because if Bucky’s not going to faint from smoke inhalation then Steve’s probably going to make him with those kisses. Steve hangs onto Bucky’s hand and squeezes, sits on the bed in the back of the ambulance next to him, and Bucky closes his eyes.

He’s safe, he’s with Steve, and he’s happy. It’s crazy that it took him nearly burning his bakery down to get the guy, but he’s not one to look this particular gift horse in the mouth.

‘Steve?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Happy birthday.’

**Author's Note:**

> Like Bucky, I have a thing for Steve Rogers in uniform. Any uniform.
> 
> Cloudberry is the English name I know for a plant that's apparently also called bakeapple by people across the pond. So there's that. Cloudberry jam and preserves are my favourite speciality from Sweden when I went there a couple of years ago, and I was like, 'Let's make our favourite Scandinavian enjoy eating them too!' so apple and cloudberry pie naturally became Thor's favourite. (He can eat three in one sitting, Bucky told me.)
> 
> If you're tempted by any of the food Bucky is making in this, the recipes are here, because I put too much effort into Accurate Baking transcriptions:  
> [Blackberry Basil Swiss Roll](http://frugalfeeding.com/2014/10/02/blackberry-basil-swiss-roll/)  
> [Georgia Peach Pie](http://www.foodandwine.com/recipes/georgia-peach-pie)  
> [Maple, Pear and Ginger Pie with Cream Cheese Crust](http://www.spoonforkbacon.com/2016/10/maple-pear-and-ginger-pie/) (this is great, I've made it before and it was THE BOMB.COM)  
> [Blackberry and Buttermilk Pie with Cream Cheese Crust](http://www.spoonforkbacon.com/2015/08/buttermilk-blackberry-pie/)  
> [Caramel Apple Cake](https://www.sainsburysmagazine.co.uk/recipes/autumn/caramel-apple-cake) (this is also the recipe for Steve's birthday cake, for which I have [a visual](https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PmSqvzzf_Dc/ThI3lOnmFbI/AAAAAAAAD6k/Dg37JB8QANI/s1600/IMG_0642wm.jpg).)


End file.
